


just breathe through december

by dirtmemer



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Oikawa Quits, Oikawa Tooru is Trying, let him be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:09:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtmemer/pseuds/dirtmemer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't want to play volleyball anymore,” you say quietly. A pin drop confession. </p>
<p>“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Iwaizumi says, the hard line of his mouth softening. “Oikawa- if it makes you feel so bad, you don't have to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	just breathe through december

**Author's Note:**

> _am I like windmills deserted,_  
>  _breathe on my own in wastelands,_  
>  _that no one knows_  
>  \--李亮辰，Anticipating

You watch him run through his warm-ups, his shirt riding up, a little sliver of skin peeking out from under the fabric. You watch him do his stretching, breath one two three, three two one, and you wonder if being in love with your best friend is something you should be doing. A situation you should be in. If you could be in love, with your heart pulled out of your chest. With you, your empty, empty body. 

“What?” he says, catching your stare and holding, holding, one two three four five. 

“Nothing, nothing,” you say. He frowns at you. 

“Liar,” he mutters. You don't bother to correct him. You _are_ a liar. You lie about lots of things. You lied about eating the last cookie. You lied about liking that girl with wavy hair back. You lied about your knee. You lied about the number of jump spikes you practiced every day. 

“That's rude,” you say cheerfully. The coach signals for the practice game to start, the first ever since the end of Spring Highs, one of your last. “Rude and unnecessary.” 

He scoffs at you, a soft derisive noise. You want him to do more. Scold you, yell at you, hit you, bait you for a reaction. Anything, _anything_ for you to be half of who you used to be. Who you could have been. He steps around you like he's treading on shattered glass, sometimes. The whole team does, with their wide stares and sweaty faces and their fingers clenched around volleyballs. They burn, burn deep into you, into your bones, into your brain. He doesn't say anything. You are almost disappointed. 

You were meant for Great Things, you used to think. If only, if only, if only. Sometimes you wish you'd never laid a finger on a volleyball. You wish you'd never even heard of it. You're bitter as you toss the ball in the air, as you jump, as you execute your four-thousand-three-hundred-and-fourth perfect jump serve. If only Tobio-chan were never born. If only Ushiwaka-chan were never born. If only you were the best, the brightest, the most talented. If only. 

“Nice serve!” Hanamaki calls. You flash him a peace sign. Of course. Nice, of course it's nice. It's a good serve. It's good, it's great, it's perfect, but it's not _enough_. 

You set the ball. You toss it Iwa-chan, once, twice, five times, ten. You toss to Kindaichi, to Hanamaki, to Kyoutani. You praise Watari, you praise Kunimi, you praise Yahaba. “Don't mind!” you yell, when there's a miss. Seijou's team wins the game. You shake hands with the other captain. 

“Good game,” you say. 

“Yes, thank you,” the other captain says. 

You guide yourself through all the motions, teasing, taunting, flirting. You're going mad with a sort of bright-edged mania. You think it'll be a good thing, going mad. Iwa-chan still looks like he's walking on eggshells. He's so dumb it's cute. 

Kyoutani slinks off as soon as practice ends. The rest of the team file off, two by two, like Noah's Ark of Animals, Watari and Yahaba, Kindaichi and Kunimi, Hanamaki and Matsukawa. Iwa-chan is left with you, shoving things back into the right places, locking the doors. You work yourself into a frenzy, words spilling out of your mouth, your face stretching and pulling in the right order, the right expressions. 

Iwaizumi frowns at you. 

“It'll stick that way if you keep making faces,” you say, deliriously, nonsensically. 

“Stop it,” he says, your star gone supernova. Your Iwa-chan. 

“Stop what?” you say. 

His shoulders hunch in like a cat, stressed out and angry. “Don't,” he says, a short sharp syllable. 

You breath in. Out. You take your goddamned breaths, fill your lungs with air and your eyes with Iwaizumi's down-turned mouth. “Why-” you say, choked. “Why can't I- why can't we ever win?” 

Iwaizumi stares at you. “Oikawa,” he says, almost sadly. 

“I try, and try, and try,” you say. “I've given- I've given everything. _Everything_. And I. I just-” 

You scrub at your eyes. They're dry, uncomfortable against the rough of your palm. 

“I don't want to play volleyball anymore,” you say quietly. A pin drop confession. 

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” Iwaizumi says, the hard line of his mouth softening. “Oikawa- if it makes you feel so bad, you don't have to.” 

“The worst thing is,” you say, standing there in the dark, under the stars, under the light of the lamp posts lining the streets. “The worst thing is- I love it. I love volleyball. I want to play it until I die. But I _can't_. I can't.” 

Iwaizumi stands there, with you. The sharp lines of his face are illuminated by the harsh lamp light. He looks- he looks so good. So handsome. Like some fairy tale knight, and you're the demon, with your great curling horns and you're evil, evil, evil. 

“Then don't,” he says, simply. You choke out a laugh. He's always so _unsympathetic_. 

“At least offer me some kind of life advice or something, Iwa-chan,” you say. “You're so bad at this therapist thing, honestly.” 

“It's a good thing I'm not your therapist, then,” he says. You laugh again, loud and frantic, and it feels so _good_. You think- you really think. You love him. 

“I love you,” you say, half-hysterical and drunk on your own brain. “Iwa-chan, I love you. I'm quitting volleyball. I love you.” 

You fling your arms around him, and he lets you, the first physical contact you've had in days, and he's a brick shithouse of warmth and muscle and skin and bones. Like you. You have a physical body too. You hold his wrists in your fingers, the honed points of his joints pressed against the pads of your digits, and you marvel at the solidness, flesh and sinew and blood. 

“You're fucking hysterical,” he says fondly, bumping his forehead against your nose, like you are fourteen and on the verge of a panic attack again, like you are still anything at all. “Idiot.” 

“Yeah,” you say. His eyes are green and lively and you want to be maudlin and compare them to a forest or something. He'd yell at you. “Sleep over at mine tonight, Iwa-chan.” 

“Fuck off,” he tells you gently. “I'm not going to do something just because you told me to.” 

“You're lying,” you say, and you hold on to him tighter. “Liar. Iwa-chan, you liar.” 

“Yeah,” he says, sounding like you've peeled away his skin and bared him to the bones. “I'll go after I take a shower and get my stuff.” 

“Promise,” you say insistently. “Promise you will- Iwa-chan, please-” 

“I promise,” he says, intent lining his posture. You trust him. 

“I trust you,” you say. He shivers, strips you off him and shoves you away. 

“Go home,” he says. 

You wander home, vaguely making it through the door. “Hi mom,” you say fuzzily, and smile when she tousles your hair affectionately. 

“Had a good day, Tooru?” she says. 

“No,” you tell her. You go take a bath. You sit in the tub, count the seconds and minutes, watch your skin prune. You sing a song, two, make it through half of the third, when Iwa-chan makes good of his promise and shows up. 

“Tooru!” your mom calls. “Hajime is here!” 

“'Kay,” you call back, tumbling out of the tub onto slippery linoleum. You get dry, get dressed, greet Iwa-chan, eat dinner. You count each process out on your fingers. Iwa-chan eats all your carrots, and you eat all his tomatoes. Time ticks away, a blur of activity and words you forget saying. 

“Iwa-chan,” you say, when it's twelve and you don't know where the rest of the time has gone, and you're both in bed, curled around each other. “Can I kiss you?” 

He considers, his mouth pursed charmingly. 

“No,” he says. “Go to sleep.” 

“Okay,” you say. “That's cool.” 

You close your eyes for a bit. “Iwa-chan,” you say, and he grunts, irritated. 

“What?” 

“Let's prank Makki and Mattsun tomorrow,” you say.

He stares at you blearily for a long moment.

“Sure,” he says. “Why the fuck not.”


End file.
